


Anything That Can Go Wrong- Carey and P.K.

by HannahJane



Series: The Perils of Jamie [5]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe- Murphy's Law, Brief descriptions of injuries sustained in combat and on the job, Carey Price- Grumpy Robot Lady, Carey tries to be a functional human, F/M, Fluffity-fluff, Gen, Girl!Benny, Girl!Carey, Girl!Danni, Girl!Eryn, Girl!Jamie, M/M, PK Subban- Cinnamon Roll, Some minor peril, When Rom-Coms attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-15 18:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13036857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HannahJane/pseuds/HannahJane
Summary: “What’s a bad knee day and why does Eryn want me to remind you that Tylenol is your friend?” are not questions that Carey wants to hear from anyone, let alone Sidney Crosby.





	Anything That Can Go Wrong- Carey and P.K.

**Author's Note:**

> If you have found this by googling yourself or someone you know, please click the back button now.
> 
> If you have not, please note these warnings: there are brief descriptions of injuries received in the line of duty as well as one brief mention of a PTSD-style flashback.

It’s going to be a Bad Knee Day.

 

Carey knows it before she even tosses the covers off, can feel the deep throb already building under her knee cap and with a groan of frustration, she yanks the covers up over her head and curls into a ball.

 

It’s a Bad Knee Day.

 

It is also a game day, specifically a Nashville Predators Day.

 

Bad Knee Day and Preds Day occurring on the same day means that at some point in a past life, Carey had definitely pissed off the wrong people.

 

There’s the sound of movement in the hallway, and someone shuffles past Carey’s open door like the world’s slowest zombie. The sound disappears, only to reappear, shuffling back into Carey’s doorway and clearing a very phlegmy throat.

 

Carey would ignore it, but she knows her roommates and knows that Jamie is completely capable of standing there and clearing her throat all morning long, the gift of being the youngest child.

 

“Don’t,” Carey warns, pushing the blankets back and sitting up so she can glare at the other woman. “I will kick your ass so hard, Benny.”

 

“If you could actually get outta bed to kick my ass, you'd have done it already.” Jamie says, remarkably smug for someone whose hair is sticking straight up from her head in four different places.

 

“Oooh, who’s getting their ass kicked?” Looking irritatingly cheerfully awake, Eryn’s face pops up over Jamie’s left shoulder, followed closely by the rumpled blonde head of McJesus himself appearing over Jamie’s left shoulder. Carey stares at the three people in her bedroom doorway and wishes, not for the first time, that she’d given life as a shut-in a real college try.

 

“Pricey’s having a Bad Knee Day.” Jamie says, apparently unphased by the press of bodies invading her space. “And she’s grumpy.”

 

Carey flips them all off, confident in the knowledge that her day can only get better from there.

 

But, of course, her day doesn't get better from there because her roommates are (mostly) well-intentioned assholes.

 

“What’s a bad knee day and why does Eryn want me to remind you that Tylenol is your friend?” are not questions that Carey wants to hear from anyone, let alone Sidney Crosby. He’s leaning into the Consol security office, holding his phone up so that she can see his screen lighting up with incoming text messages.

 

“A bad knee day means that I will readjust security protocols so that you have to go  _ through _ the visiting team locker room if you ask me about it again,” she replies and takes possibly too much satisfaction in watching him turn very pale. With her point made, Carey turns her attention back to the duty rosters for the night’s game; two people out sick and almost everyone else assigned to the political rally downtown, the security staff are stretched thin and Carey sighs again before penciling her name into the slot by the visiting team.

 

She ignores the little voice in the back of her head (that sounds an awful lot like Jamie) that whispers it’s really not such a burden to cover the visiting team’s locker room and that  _ perhaps the security guard doth protest too much _ .

 

* * *

 

Two hours later, Carey has successfully survived the Pens morning skate, a reporter's missing child (hiding in a concession stand), and an angry voicemail from her physical therapist about skipping yet another session. Her knee is throbbing, there is a stress headache forming behind her eyes, and unfortunately, her day is just getting started.

 

And it starts with a bang.

 

Luckily, the bang is simply two track-suit clad hockey players fight/racing their way down the hall. Carey slips to the side as the duo collide with one of the cinderblock walls and ricochet their way through the visitor's locker room door. It's not the first time she's dodged wrestling hockey players and it won't even be the last time that day.

 

" _ Children!"  _ an accented voice yells after them, sounding like an aggrieved parent whose misbehaving offspring are destroying a grocery store. Carey is familiar with that tone of voice; she lives with Eryn Ekblad and Jamie Benn after all.

 

"You should try cutting off their caffeine after 12pm," Carey teases gently as Pekka Rinne strides by. She gets a wry smile in return and a nudge to the shoulder. The rest of the Preds players and staff walk by, nodding or saying hello until there's only one player that Carey hasn't seen.

 

"Cash Money Price!" PK Subban makes his entrance to Consol like he's a supermodel on the runway in Paris, purple suit jacket thrown over his shoulder, grinning at her for all he's worth as he struts towards her.

 

And just like every time for the last year and a half, Carey keeps her face politely blank as she returns his greeting with a slight nod. "Mr. Subban, it's nice to see you again."

 

"So formal, Pricey," Subban clucks his tongue, but the smile never stops. He holds his hand out to shake and Carey feels something akin to butterflies in her stomach that she ruthlessly quashes before she does something ridiculous like start blushing. Routine is important for all hockey players, even if they are “the enemy”. She holds out of her hand.

 

Subban, just like every time before, takes her hand and gently turns it over to press a kiss to her knuckles before shooting her a wink and entering the locker room. This time, Carey lets the warm tingle in the pit of her stomach build for a few seconds before she straightens her shoulders and walks away, resisting the urge to glance back over her shoulder.

 

Even if her current life plan allowed for dating, a professional hockey player was completely off the table.

 

The teams switch ice time easily and Carey finds herself lingering in the mouth of the tunnel as the Predators take the ice from the other side, play-wrestling and flipping pucks around with their sticks. Subban is the easiest person to find in the mass of golden uniforms, his exuberant laughter filtering out across the ice and it’s purely by accident that their eyes meet across the rink. Carey feels the heat rise in her cheeks and she doesn’t even care that it looks like she’s running away when she whirls around and strides swiftly back down the tunnel to the safety of her office.

 

The paperwork in the security office provides a chance to cool down and all thoughts of a gorgeous smile and warm brown eyes are forced to the back of her mind as she concentrates on the stack of paperwork from the previous night’s game. In fact, she’s so focused on the report in front of her that when someone raps their knuckles on the door, she yelps in surprise.

 

Subban’s grin seems even wider than usual as he leans in the doorway, back in his shiny purple suit and watching her a little too intently for Carey’s taste. She clears her throat, puts her pen down, and gives him her blandest smile, the one she usually reserves for office politics and baby showers.

 

“What can I do for you, Mr. Subban?” his eyebrow quirks at her coolness, but his grin doesn’t dim a bit. Carey has to fight hard to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up because there is something adorable about both his persistence and his lack of a reaction to what Jamie calls ‘Resting Price Face’.

 

“Call me PK,” he says as he moves into the office and leans on one of the visitor’s chairs, his hands curling around the back of the chair. “It’ll be easier when we have lunch together if you drop the mister.” 

 

This time it’s Carey’s turn to quirk an eyebrow and she leans back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest.

 

“Really?” she asks, this time unable to keep her lips from twitching. “That’s the route you’re taking?”

 

Subban winks, flashing a hint of sparkling white teeth and straightens out of his slouch. “You’ve turned me down 6 times, Pricey. Sometimes a man has to resort to desperate measures.”

 

“Yeah, well consider this turn-down number 7,  _ Mr.  _ Subban,” Carey says and immediately wants to kick herself at how flirtatious it sounds. “I have a tupperware of leftovers waiting in the staff fridge that have already claimed me as their lunch date.”

 

She’s pretty sure that she doesn’t imagine the flash of disappointment on his face, but it’s gone almost as quickly as it came and he’s smiling brilliantly again.

 

“You’re breaking my heart, Pricey,” he says, dramatically clutching a hand to his chest. “A man’s spirit can only take so much,”

 

“Aren’t you late for a nap or carbo loading or something?” Carey asks, picking up her pen again and trying to will the warmth from her cheeks. In reality, there is nothing else she’d rather do than go to lunch with Subban or for that matter, any meal. She’d settle for walking down the hall to the vending machine.

 

“Til next time, Cash Money.” he says and is gone in a whirl of purple fabric and expensive smelling cologne.

 

In the sudden vacuum of silence left behind in the drab office, Carey puts her head down on the paperwork in front of her and says a bad word.

 

* * *

 

_ ‘This is a thing that’s happening in my life,’ Carey thinks as another muscular hockey player struts past, a thin white towel the only thing keeping her from getting an eyeful. She arches an eyebrow at the young man, giving him the same unimpressed look that she gives Jamie when she finds her roommate eating cereal on the couch in her underwear. The hockey player turns an unflattering shade of red and picks up the pace, disappearing into the showers. _

 

_ “You’re gonna give them a complex,” a voice says from behind her and Carey glances back at the man stretched out on the massage table, his calf being tended to by a trainer. PK Subban is still wearing his sweat-soaked Under-armor gear and a grimace as the trainer digs his fingers into the knotted muscle and Carey knows from personal experience exactly how painful that can feel. _

 

_ “I’m not in the locker room for a date,” she snaps, maybe a little unfairly and turns back to watching the expanse of the Penguins visitor locker room. In fact, if someone hadn’t decided to make breaking into Consol the new Pledge week prank at the local college, she wouldn’t be anywhere near people at all. Unfortunately, that is not the case. _

 

_ “Clearly,” Subban mutters just loud enough to be heard and Carey shoots him a glare that has him raising his hands in self-defense. “All I meant was that you’re clearly working right now, but you might want to tone down the scowling before you scare the rookies too much. They’re sensitive.”  _

 

_ Carey sighs and tries to subtly shake some of the tension out of her shoulders, aware that she’s taking out her grumpiness on people who don’t deserve it. “Sorry,” she says over her shoulder and gets a hand waved in her general direction. _

 

_ “No problem; everyone’s entitled to a bad-- fuck!”  Subban cuts off abruptly, burying his head in his arms as the trainer hastily apologizes. There’s a moment of deep breathing that flexes his broad shoulders before he lifts his head and meets Carey’s gaze. _

 

_ “Sorry,” he apologizes this time and Carey manages a wry smile. _

 

_ “Got a bum knee; trust me, I know the feeling.” she says with a shrug. “I hate my physical therapist with a passion.” _

 

_ Subban glances down, but Carey isn’t offended. It’s a good day today which means there’s no brace and she isn’t favoring her knee in a way that makes everyone and their mother ask if she’s okay. She really hates it when it’s a Bad Knee Day, when Jamie and Eks stick just a little  _ **_too_ ** _ close and every movement is pain lightning down her leg. _

 

_ A burst of noise and laughter over her shoulder sends her turning around, but it’s just a couple of the younger players wrestling and when she glances back, Subban has his head buried in his hands again, so she refocuses her attention on the locker room just in time to watch one of the players come out of the shower without a towel, notice her standing against the door and Spiderman leap back through the doorway with an unnaturally high shriek. _

 

_ ‘Yep,’ she thinks as the man’s teammates immediately begin to tease him mercilessly. ‘Things that are happening in my life,’ _

 

* * *

 

By 2147 hours that night, Carey’s knee feels like someone is stabbing the joint with every step she takes and waves of nausea wash through her gut every few minutes. The mood in the visitor’s locker room is high energy, everyone buzzed about beating the Pens. Carey isn’t particularly thrilled about the victory, a: because she’s a Pittsburgh fan, but more importantly because b: it’s almost a 100% certainty that she’s going to have Connor McDavid moping around her house later tonight which is a burden that no one should have to deal with.

 

She’s monitoring the overly large scrum around game-winning goal scorer Josi and the mild case of elbow-throwing that’s happening at the back of it when someone steps in between her and the rest of the locker room, says ‘hi’ in a very unimpressed tone, and then she’s suddenly got an arm firmly around her waist and she’s being led towards the back of the locker room.

 

“I am very disappointed in you, Pricey,” Subban says conversationally and maybe it’s the ridiculousness of the whole thing, but Carey doesn’t even think to try and stop him. “You’re not supposed to use that knee until it gives out. They’re very expensive to replace.”

 

“How do you even-” but her question is cut off as the hockey player guides them into the trainer’s room, kicks the door shut behind them and nudges her towards the bemused looking trainer who had been in the process of packing his bag.

 

“Ben, this is Carey,” Subban says by way of explanation, his tone hovering somewhere between unimpressed and disapproving. “And she is very bad at taking care of herself.” Carey sighs heavily.

 

“Look,” Carey says as she turns towards Subban to tell him exactly what he can do with his good intentions. “I am a grown ass-” and it’s at that moment that her traitorous knee chooses to give out on her. The trainer’s quick reflexes are the only thing that keep Carey from landing on the gun-metal grey carpet and even though Subban doesn’t say “I told you so,” the words hang heavily in the air as the trainer helps her to the massage table.

 

Ben the Trainer slides the leg of her slacks up and Carey wants to hide her face as the full extent of the damage is revealed, the result of rushed emergency field surgery to keep her from bleeding to death. She winces as the sight of the red, swollen joint, knowing that she has pushed a little too hard and that tomorrow will absolutely suck. Risking a glance at Subban’s face, she expects to see pity in his eyes, but there’s nothing there but warmth and maybe a little exasperation.

 

“Pretty big scar,” Ben says, carefully setting his thumbs into the taut muscle around the joint. Even the light contact makes nausea swirl violently in Carey’s gut and she clamps her hands around the edge of the table, squeezing so hard that her fingernails cut into the plastic.

 

“Had a total reconstruction after a combat injury; it’s more bionic than bone at this point,” she says through gritted teeth, her eyes darting around the room in a desperate bid to keep from the threatening tears from escaping. 

 

The trainer winces in sympathy and presses a little harder, sending a sharp lance of pain down her shin. Carey hisses out a pained breath and in an instant, Subban is at her side, gently peeling her fingers away from the table to interlace them with his own.

 

“I am gonna get in so much trouble if I break your hand,” Carey says through gritted teeth, trying for a smile that is absolutely more of a grimace than anything.

 

“Well, then how about you don’t do that and I’ll distract you.” Subban says, releasing one of her hands to pull his phone out of his pocket. “Because someone here saw their niece over the weekend and has a camera roll full of adorableness.” He narrates each picture as it comes up, lots of pictures of a dark-haired little girl with a huge smile who clearly has her uncle wrapped around her finger. He never lets go of her hand, his thumb stroking back and forth over her knuckles and Carey finds herself leaning into his side, letting herself drift on the sound of his voice.

 

Carey feels strung out and raw by the time Ben the Trainer is finished and only half-listens to the post session tips for care that he rattles off. A quick glance at the clock on the wall clarifies that she’s got a few hours left on her shift and she groans as she swings her leg over the edge of the table.

 

“Just a little bit longer,” she mutters, gingerly testing her weight with her knee. It’s sore, but the spiking pain is gone and so is the feeling of wanting to cry with every step.

 

“Give me your keys,” her impromptu knight in shining armor says. “I’ll drive you home, Pricey.”

 

Carey looks up from testing her knee to the hand outstretched towards her and finally up into Subban’s face, a face that appears to be completely serious.

 

“I still have 2 hours left on my shift,” she says, straightening to her full height and meeting his gaze dead on. With the tension pulled out of the muscles, it’s easier to keep her face stoic. “But thanks for the offer, Subban.”

 

“Seriously, Pricey?” Subban says exasperatedly and any other time, Carey probably would have noticed the determined set to his jaw, but she’s admittedly not firing on all cylinders just then and he moves out of her way when she makes for the door.

 

In fact, she doesn’t notice anything amiss until twenty minutes later when her boss puts out a call over the radio telling her to go home or he’ll call Benny and Eks to come drag her home.

 

“Rude,” is the only response that she can formulate that isn’t insubordination and to be fair her knee does actually hurt so in the end, she goes to her locker, grabs her bag and limps out to the mostly empty parking lot, only to find out that it’s not as empty as she’d initially thought.

 

“Shouldn’t you be at a Marriott or something?” she asks the man leaning against the grill of her truck. Subban grins widely and holds out his hand with the magnetic self-confidence and Carey just… gives in, tossing him the keys in a gentle lob. 

 

She’s tired, her knee is throbbing, and a handsome man with a very nice smile is offering to chauffeur her home. It’s not that difficult of a decision to make.

 

“I talked to my coach,” is all Subban offers by way of an explanation for his presence and helps her up into the truck. There are days -- bad knee days in particular -- in which Carey regrets buying such a large vehicle, but today is not one of those days. Subban settles comfortably behind the wheel and from there the only conversation they engage in is Carey mumbling her address to put into the GPS and then they’re on the road.

 

Somewhere on the road between Consol and home, she dozes off to Subban softly humming along to the song on the radio.

 

* * *

 

“Oh what the fuck,” Connor McDavid says as PK closes the door behind himself and Carey, setting her bag on the floor by the shoe rack. The blonde center is in head to toe Pittsburgh workout gear and PK’s about 97% sure that the Ben and Jerry’s in the kid’s hand is  _ not  _ on his diet plan. Carey sways a little at his side as she tries to kick off her shoes and PK slides a hand under her elbow to steady her. He’s pretty sure he’s not imagining the way she leans into his touch.

 

“What are you doing in my house, Subban?” McDavid grumbles, still openly gawking and trying to hide the ice cream behind his back with little success.

 

“ _ Your  _ house, McDavid?” Carey asks in a tired, but still deadly voice and PK is impressed at how quickly McDavid’s mouth snaps shut. The younger man gets a contemplative look on his face before he flees down the hall, giving PK a chance to look around. The entryway is strewn with more pairs of boots than he thinks belong to just Carey, but he keeps quiet in case she decides to get territorial about him being there at all and silently following her shuffling limp down the hall towards the kitchen.

 

A tall dark-haired woman with full sleeve tattoos is leaning against the kitchen island, a beer in one hand, phone in the other, but PK only gets a quick once-over because the moment the woman sees the two of them she becomes a blur of motion, herding Carey into a bar-back chair and gently nudging PK out of the way.

 

“Seriously, Pricer,” the woman scolds as she retrieves an ice-pack from the fridge and comes to crouch in front of Carey, pressing the blue gel pack against the injured woman’s knee. “You are literally your own worst enemy.”

 

“You’re being pretty judgmental for someone in face-kicking range, Benny,” Carey shoots back, but she doesn’t carry through on her threat and instead takes a long pull of the beer that had been discarded on the island. Her brown eyes sparkle across the kitchen at PK and he can’t help but be charmed by the flush that dusts across her fair skin, or the little flash of dimples in her cheeks. He winks and watches the flush darken.

 

“Holy shit, he wasn’t being a weirdo,” a new voice announces from behind PK and he turns to see a pretty, petite brunette woman in a Pens tank-top and jeans slip into the kitchen. “There really is a Predator in the house,”

 

“The only predator in this house is your boyfriend when I bring home croissants from that bakery on Fourth,” Carey says primly. “Eks, Benny, this is PK; be nice, I like him more than the two of you.”

 

Her comment is met with loud protestations from the other two women, but the twitching at the corner of her mouth tell PK that the protests are mostly for show. There’s a lot of back and forth that he doesn’t fully follow, in-jokes and familiar teasing, but it doesn’t feel exclusionary and instead feels comfortable in the same way that he jokes with his teammates in the locker room. Eventually the consensus is reached to order food and PK is asked by the petite blonde with the shy smile if he’d like to stay and have dinner with them.

 

“Dinner with three beautiful ladies? Sounds perfect,” he says and watches that pink blush spread across Carey’s cheeks again.

 

The three roommates are mindful of meal plans and order from a local restaurant that Jamie Benn claims makes the best bao she’s ever had in her life. Eryn says there’s a better place on the concourse at the base in Germany and kicks off a fight that PK has no hope of following, so he just sits back and watches Carey interact with her friends.

 

The scowling borderline feral woman that he’d first met 9 months ago in the visitor’s locker room is a completely different creature from the woman who sits next to him on the love seat in the living room, her glossy brown hair tumbling loose over her shoulders and the corners of her mouth quirked up.

 

A plateful of very good food and a couple beers later, Carey has gently listed into his side with her head against his shoulder and PK is trying to ignore the arched eyebrows of the other three people in the room. It’s admittedly hard to pay attention to much of anything with the soft, warmth of Carey under his arm and it’s almost overwhelming about how easy it is to be close to someone he’s only gotten to know in 2 hour increments every month or so.

 

PK’s phone buzzes a warning on the arm of the couch and Carey stirs under his arm, turning from her conversation with  a still sulky McDavid, head tilting back against his arm as she smiles up at him.

 

"You turning into a pumpkin, Subban?" She asks, brown eyes sparkling with amusement and he can't bite back his own answering grin as he stares down into her face, briefly entertaining the idea of just leaning down and kissing her.

 

His phone buzzes again, rudely breaking the spell of watching the golden flecks glow in her eyes and PK glances down at a text from Roman saying that Coach had been musing out loud about doing room checks in about an hour.

 

"Sadly, I am," he says, tucking his phone into his pocket after reassuring Roman that he was on his way. "And a bag-skated one if I don't make it back to the hotel in time." McDavid lights up at that, but his girlfriend elbows him in the ribs and he quickly schools his face into a less gleeful expression. 

 

"I'll walk you out," Carey says and makes to stand which gets her a resounding chorus of "no's!" from the other three people in the room. She scowls, but PK had seen the pain she was in earlier in the night and assures her that he’ll be okay.

  
  


That doesn't mean, however, that PK wants McDavid to walk him to the door, especially because the other man rounds on him the moment they're out of sight of the women in the living room and says, "if you hurt Pricey, I will high-stick the shit out of you. Every fucking game, Subban. I swear to God, I will.”

 

PK opens his mouth to refute any desire whatsoever to hurt Carey when he's cut off by a familiar voice from the living room snapping, "for Christ’s sake, Connor, we can fucking  _ hear _ you." McDavid's face turns the color of a tomato, but he still maintains his attempts at looking intimidating.

 

PK isn’t sure how more people haven’t tried to punch the kid in the face, especially given the nature of their work.

 

The Lyft ride back to the hotel is quiet and PK stares out the window without really seeing any of the sights, caught up in the memories of the body tucked against his and the slow faintly crooked smile that accompanied that warmth.

_____

 

**PK:** hey, got a minute?

 

**Croz:** sure...

 

**PK:** need a little help getting a hold of someone in Pittsburgh. Her name is Carey.

 

**Unknown number:** I will high-stick AND cross-check the shit out of you, Subban! Every fucking game!

 

**PK:** Dude, don't give McDavid my number!

 

**Croz:** sorry.

 

**PK:** really?

 

**Croz:** Maybe.

 

**PK:** thought so

 

* * *

 

Carey is staring at an incident report from the previous night’s game, trying to decipher her employee's truly heinous handwriting when she becomes eerily aware of the feeling of someone staring intently at her. Marking her place on the page with a finger, she looks up to find Sidney Crosby in the doorway, staring at her in a way best described as ‘Suspicious Lizard’.

 

"Oh for fucks sake," Carey says and hauls herself to her feet, careful to not just jump up less she end up in a heap on the floor. "Shoo; go on! Shoo!" He retreats into the hall as she approaches the doorway, but stops just out of swiping range, still staring at her. 

 

"What?" Carey says as she leans on the doorknob while trying to make it appear as though she isn’t. Her knee is still punishing her from the day before and she’s already been popping ibuprofen like Skittles.

 

"Subban texted me today. And asked for your number." He says, suspicion in his tone. "So I asked Connor about it,"

 

"And?" She asks drily, knowing exactly where this is headed and wishing there was some way to stop it.

 

"And?!" He shouts, throwing his arms in the air which might not have had as much of an impact if he hadn’t been wearing compression leggings and yellow Crocs. " _ And _ ?! And stop dating the enemy, Pricey! It's not allowed!"

 

This time, she does take a swipe at him, but he skips easily out of her grasp and takes off down the corridor. 

 

"Pretty sure feminism means I can date whoever the fuck I want, you Stanley Cup Champion jackass!" she yells at the man's retreating back and turns around with a huff, only to find Mike Sullivan standing in his office doorway, arms folded and the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth even as his eyebrow arches questioningly.

 

"Sorry, Coach," she says and tries not make it look like she's hiding in her office even though she totally is.

 

It's a great way to start the week.

* * *

 

It takes Carey an embarrassing long time to realize that the blaring alarm in her dream is actually the shriek of her phone in real life infiltrating her subconscious. 

 

With a grunt, she manages to drag the phone onto the pillow beside her face and stabs at the screen blindly with one finger until she finally hears someone’s voice over the speaker.

 

“I know this is a dream,” she slurs into her pillowcase. “Because you’re calling me at 0400 hours and no real live person calls me at 0400.”

 

“Oh, darlin’, you wish I was a dream,” Danni Briere says, sounding far too awake for the ungodly hour. Goddamn morning people with bubble personalities and an unending supply of energy. “Get your ass up, Pricey; you need to be on a plane in 50 minutes.”

 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Carey growls into the pillow. “I just got to bed two hours ago.”

 

“Porter’s wife is on her way to the hospital to bring Porter Jr. number 5 into the world and the man himself is with her,” Danni says and Carey reluctantly peels her eyes open because that is definitely a legitimate reason to call off work. “That means that our favorite flightless birds are one short on travel detail.”

 

“I really hate you,” Carey mumbles around a yawn, but Danni just laughs, still far too happy for 0400 hours.

 

“Pretty sure Porter’s wife hates him more,” Danni says with the self-assuredness of a woman who has given birth to three children herself and hangs up.

 

* * *

 

Carey gets three feet down the aisle of the Penguins chartered plane and is set upon by a golden retriever named Connor McDavid, a golden retriever who gives incredibly enthusiastic hugs at 0530 hours. She stands there, coffee in one hand, duffel bag in the other and makes pointed eye contact with the first Penguin she can over Connor’s shoulder.

 

“On it,” Hornqvist calls and a few seconds later, Connor is being physically removed by Sheary and Bonino and forcibly dragged back into his seat. His protests fall on deaf ears and Carey continues down the aisle until she can sink into the empty seat beside Paul Martin who has already settled in with his neck pillow and noise-cancelling headphones sitting in his lap.

 

“If anyone tries to wake me up, I want you to shoot them,” she says, nudging her plane seat back the small amount that it will go and leans her head back, gritty-feeling eyes already sliding closed. “My gun is in a lockbox down in the cargo hold and I can’t tell you the code to open it, but if you could try that would be great,”

 

“You got it, Carey,” he says in that easy deadpan way of his and she gives herself up to the exhaustion that’s been creeping up on her ever since her phone rang that morning.

 

* * *

 

Carey’s pretty sure that Nashville is a lovely city, but she’s too busy feeling paranoid to actually consider exploring it. It’s a paranoia that only increases as the bus pulls up to Bridgestone Arena and they all troop out for morning practice en masse. If anyone else notices that she’s looking around furtively, she hopes they only think she’s identifying security measures.

 

Unfortunately, her paranoia is completely validated when they round a corner of the arena and find Ryan Johansen leaning against a skate sharpening station, grinning like the proverbial cat who got the canary. Carey doesn’t think she’s imagining the way that his gaze runs over her before he greets Connor gleefully and she’d never admit to hiding between Kessel and Hornqvist, but that’s exactly what she does.

 

Forty minutes later the last Pen has stepped onto the ice and Carey is leaning against the wall of the tunnel, still feeling a little like she’s been hit with a 2x4 after a mostly sleepless night and the paranoia that keeps her bloodstream awash with adrenaline. She yawns despite an extra large coffee just a few minutes ago and stretches her arms over her head, twisting her spine around to try and work out some of the knots.

 

There’s a low chuckle from behind her and Carey freezes, despite the not entirely unwanted frisson of heat that slides through her stomach. She doesn’t turn around, schooling her features into the blandest possible expression that she can manage as she returns her arms to her side.

 

“Cash Money Price,” Subban says as he comes up beside her, giving her a friendly bump with his shoulder. “My favorite bodyguard,”

 

“PK Subban,” she replies, trying her hardest to appear as uninterested as possible. “My second favorite hockey player.”

 

He gasps dramatically and clutches a hand to his chest, eyes wide. “Your  _ second  _ favorite? Who’s the first?”

 

Carey nods her head towards the ice where the Pens are skating around lazily, batting pucks back and forth, leaving it to him to decide which one she means. When she looks back at him again, he’s smiling down at her, warm and open and despite herself, Carey finds herself smiling back.

 

Subban takes a half-step closer, dimples deepening, mouth opening to say something and Carey finds herself starting to lean in that constant magnetic pull of his when suddenly there’s a loud thunk from the direction of the ice. She turns to find both Sid and Connor pressed against the glass, glaring daggers at them. As Carey watches, Sid points at his eyes with two gloves fingers and then points at Subban.

 

“Oh my god,” she whispers, face heating in mortification.

 

‘We’re watching you,’ Connor mouths, Sid nodding emphatically beside him.

 

“I am so sorry,” Carey says and turns back to Subban, feeling like her face is on fire. “Please don’t judge me because of those two.” To her pleasant surprise, Subban is still grinning, maybe even more broadly than he was before.

 

“Sweetheart, I would never judge anyone based on their relationship with Sidney Crosby,” He says and she can’t ignore the way that the endearment warms the pit of her stomach. There’s more banging noises at the glass and she very pointedly does not look in that direction for fear that McDavid and Crosby will manage to be even more embarrassing.

 

“You know what, Pricey?” Subban says and in a move straight out of one of Benny’s period romance movies, he offers his arm which is a move so smooth that she can’t help but slide her hand into the crook of his elbow. The banging on the glass intensifies. “I happen to be a very observant guy. And do you know what I’ve observed?”

 

“What have you observed, Mr. Subban?” she asks, leaning her head back to look him in the face. This is the last thing she should be doing, especially here in a professional setting, but Carey has limited ability to care today.

 

“I have observed that you probably haven’t had lunch yet, Pricey and I believe that depriving a body of food does more harm than good,” it’s the 8th time that he’s asked her to lunch and the refusal is on the tip of Carey’s tongue in an instant, but she stops herself before she says it.

 

There’s something running through her today, something that makes her want to throw caution to the wind and see if there’s any actual substance to that fluttery feeling in her chest every time he smiles at her.

 

“You know what, Mr. Subban, I think I would very much like to accompany you to lunch,” she says with a smile, one that feels a little shy given the confidence that she had just been feeling. His smile warms at her words, so she adds, “But just because you’re on a nutrition plan doesn’t mean I am.”

 

That feeling in the pit of her stomach swoops again as Subban throws his head back and laughs and laughs.

 

* * *

 

“Shit,” PK mutters, staring at his phone and the headline encapsulated there which appears to be mocking him in size 20 font.

 

‘THE PREDATOR’S NEW PREY’ The Deadspin article declares, accompanied by a picture from last night’s game of PK skating by the Penguins bench, clearly staring into the tunnel. There’s a darker shadows that might have been Carey, but it was impossible to tell. The article is mostly full of innuendo about their relationship as well as musing about its possible effect on his hockey. Further down the page, there’s a picture of the two of them at lunch, just the back of Carey’s head and her shoulders, but PK knows that the expression on his face is the textbook definition of smitten. 

 

And it had been such a good date too. Carey had been enamored with the meat ‘n three diner that he’d taken her too and had chirped him about breaking his meal plan while she tried to eat her own body weight in mac and cheese. They’d talked about family and work and pets and roommates and Carey’s surprisingly intense views on the Marvel Comic Universe. Later, to PK’s utter surprise, as he was dropping her off back at her hotel, Carey had leaded across the console and brushed her lips against his cheek. The flush that immediately bloomed on her face had been almost as adorable as watching her flee into the hotel and almost run into the door in her haste.

 

His phone screen changes then, switching from the Deadspin site to the picture attached to his best friend’s contact: Johnny sprawled out asleep in a pool chair with a copy of Marie Claire over his face. PK groans, but thumbs the answer button anyway because Johnny is not above using dirty tactics like calling PK’s mother if he doesn’t answer.

 

And as much as PK loves his mother, he is not in the mood.

 

“Hey bud,” he says and is greeted with silence. 

 

Since it’s not outside the possibility Johnny that butt dialed him, he tries again. “Hellllooooooooo?”

 

Finally, there comes a heavy sigh that most definitely does not belong to Johnny because what kind of best friend would PK be if he doesn’t recognize his best friend’s sighs? Johnny’s sighs tend to have more of a ‘why me’ edge to them and are far more put upon.

 

“For the record,” a faintly familiar voice says, sounding much aggrieved. “I’m only doing this so that Davo will quit calling Dyls who will quit calling me.”

 

It takes a second for PK to parse out the nicknames, but there’s only one Davo in the entirety of the NHL who would be bothering someone about PK and he can’t help but smile at the ridiculously gossipy nature of the organization that he works for.

 

“You couldn’t have just called me on your own phone, Stromer?” PK asks, settling back against the over-starched pillows of his current hotel room, staring at the ugly ass picture of a lake and trees above his TV.

 

“ _ My _ phone is currently at the bottom of a pitcher of beer,” Ryan Strome says with the aggrieved tone of someone who is ‘over it’. “Because McDavid won’t quit calling Dylan who won’t quit calling me and Ledpipe is wound a little tight right now.” PK shakes his head, remembering a few alcohol induced incidents of his own that had fortunately happened away from all cameras. He can definitively say that he’s never lost a phone to a pitcher of Miller Lite though.

 

“ _ Anyway _ ,” Strome says. “I digress. So apparently one time this Carey Price chick found Dylan passed out on the couch and covered him with a blanket and made him blueberry toaster waffles in the morning and now my dumbass little brother thinks she hung the sun. So I have to tell you that if you fuck with her, you’re gonna have the entirety of the 2016 NHL entry draft out for blood.”

 

PK does a mental check of the schedule for the rest of the year and shudders at the thought of being harassed by a bunch of rookies with a grudge.

 

“So yeah,” Stromer says, still chatting while PK’s doing mental calculations. “That’s about it. I’m gonna go back inside and get warm because it’s fucking freezing in Buffalo and I am stupidly not wearing a jacket.”

 

“Good talk,” PK offers even though it’s left him more confused than he was before he answered the phone. Stromer just grunts into the phone and hangs up.

 

The phone screen shifts from the phone screen back to the Deadspin article and PK sighs before tossing his phone into the covers and rolling over to hide his head under the pillow.

 

* * *

 

“What the actual fuck,” Carey says at the sight of the two men standing in the hall outside her hotel room.

 

“Hi,” Brad Marchand says, his smirk widening as Carey eyes him up and down. “Do you have a second to talk about your lord and savior, Gary Bettman?” Beside Marchand, Patrice Bergeron rolls his eyes. Carey knows the feeling, what with sharing a residence with Benny and Eks, and more recently Connor McDavid.

 

“This is why people want to punch you in the face all the time,” she tells Marchand, but steps to the side and lets them in anyway. They end up doing an awkward dance around the hotel room until Carey lets out a huff of exasperation and flops down onto the foot of her bed, leaving them to draw chairs away from the small table in the corner.

 

“For the record, I’m allowing this conversation to happen because I know it’s going to piss off Crosby to have two Bruins in my hotel room before the game tomorrow,” she tells both of them. “Not because I have any interest in talking to you two about whatever I’m doing or not doing with PK Subban,”

 

Bergeron’s eyes narrow ever so slightly, but Marchand just grins unrepentantly and asks, “So what’s up with you and good ol’ Peeks anyway?”

 

“Did you miss the part about this not being a feelings chat?” Carey snaps, but neither man even blinks at her tone, just continue to look at her expectantly.

 

“Oh for fucks sake,” Carey says after exactly 37 seconds of uncomfortable silence and throws her hands up. “I like him. Christ, you two are worse than my roommates.” That it took almost no pressure from her guests to admit how she feels about PK tells Carey that she’s already in way over her head.

 

“PK’s a good guy,” Bergeron speaks for the first time since entering the room and Carey knows instantly that he’s someone who chooses his words carefully, weighing everything he says before he says it. “And he doesn’t make knee-jerk decisions,”

 

“I know,” she says and those two words plunge the room into silence. Carey suddenly doesn’t want to make eye contact with anyone and stares hard at the rough flowered pattern on the carpet.

 

“Look,” she finally says, trying to force her tumultuous thoughts into some semblance of order. “I haven’t had a lot of relationships recently. My job keeps me busy and honestly, I don’t have the energy to put into dating.”

 

“But?” Marchand, for all of his bluster and peskiness, is far more aware than she gave him credit for and Carey shoots him her best unimpressed look.

 

“PK’s the kind of guy I’d make an effort for.” It’s a little ridiculous to be admitting that to two complete strangers in a hotel room in Boston, but it’s nice to finally say out loud what she’s been struggling to turn into words for the last three months since the first time PK Subban poked his head into her office and told her about this amazing sandwich place he knew about.

 

Marchand opens his mouth again, but Carey points a finger at him. “Not a word, smart ass or you’re gonna see what it’s like to get punched in the face without a hockey glove in the way,”

 

“Feisty,” he says with an exaggerated leer, but clearly understands the potential risk of saying anything else because he mimes zipping his lips and throwing away the key.

 

“Well, I think our job here is done,” Bergeron says and pushes to his feet. The guardedness that had covered his face before the conversation began is gone now and she can feel the real warmth behind his smile. “Sorry to bother you, Miss Price.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Carey says, unable to completely suppress a smile of her own, but also unwilling to let the two men get the impression that she actually likes them.

 

It’s the ultimate form of karmic revenge when she opens the door to her room to see Crosby and Connor standing in the doorway of Crosby’s room, heads bent over the phone in Connor’s hand. They both look up when the door opens. Carey smiles pleasantly at them and ushers the two Bruins out of her room, accepting Bergeron’s handshake and Marchand’s bro-hug before the two hockey players head off down the hall towards the elevators.

 

“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” she tells the two poleaxed Penguins and with a little wave of her fingers, she closes the door and goes to collapse onto her bed.

 

“For fucks sake,” Carey tells the empty room and lets out a sigh.

 

* * *

 

“Before you say anything, I’ve threatened to kill him if he so much as looks at me sideways, let alone mentions having sex,” a very pregnant Jamie Neal tells Carey from her less than graceful lean against the kitchen counter, one hand resting on her swollen stomach, the other holding a half-eaten chocolate donut. Unlike most people, Carey has plenty of self-preservation skills and isn’t planning on saying anything about anything. That’s probably why Nealer offers her a donut of her own and leads Carey out to the living room.

 

“Jesus, my feet hurt,” Nealer whines as she laboriously lowers herself onto the couch, heaving a sigh of relief once she’s seated. “Do not get pregnant, Pricey; it’s like carrying a 6 lb. dumbbell in your stomach that craves grapefruit in the morning and Cinnabon at night and does jumping jacks on your bladder at 4 am.”

 

“Noted,” Carey says, focusing maybe a little too intently on picking a sprinkle out of the chocolate glaze because when she looks up, Nealer is watching her as suspiciously as someone can over a chocolate glazed donut.

 

“Does this expression on your face have anything to do with why my partner has been texting me about why his husband is all bent out of shape about a certain Nashville Predator?”

 

Carey sinks lower on the couch, kicks at a bright yellow Transformer with her foot and shakes her head. 

 

“Sweetheart,” Nealer says in the most condescending tone of voice ever, using her half-eaten pastry to punctuate her words. “I have two children and another percolating, not to mention the number of times I’ve had to parent a number of professional hockey players and I’ve been a police officer for like a million years; I’m basically a human lie detector at this point.”

 

“Okay a: I’m like the same age as you, so give the mom schtick a break and b: how did  _ you _ do it?” she’s being purposefully vague, but Nealer isn’t an idiot by any stretch of the imagination and takes a thoughtful bite of her donut.

 

“Well, for starters, it should be acknowledged that it’s only by the grace of God that I made it to the ripe old age of 30, let alone managed to have a healthy relationship with an amazing guy,” Nealer smiles softly and ‘happily married’ looks good on her, and Carey is absolutely not jealous.

 

“It was not all sunshine and roses, to be honest,” Nealer says, a vaguely wistful expression crossing her face. “And at one time, I too had Connor McDavid being way too overprotective and way too involved in my life,”

 

Carey groans and focuses on picking all the sprinkles off her donut. Camaraderie is not something she’s unfamiliar with, 10 years in the Marines had seen to that, but even then, she’d been borderline fanatical about keeping her personal life personal. Eks and Benny had been a one-off that had just happened to pan out when it came to boundaries being crossed.

 

“Do you like him?” Nealer asks, snapping Carey out of her self-reflective daze and caught in the openness of the moment, Carey answers honestly, “A lot more than I ever thought I could.”

 

The sound of the front door shutting cuts off whatever Nealer is going to say next and a few minutes later, Connor is standing in the entryway to the living room, a grocery bag in one hand that looks to be full of cookies and oddly enough a pineapple.

 

“The hero returneth!” Nealer crows and then stops abruptly, a comical expression on her face as she presses a hand to her stomach.

 

“You okay?” Carey asks, sitting up and leaning towards her friend.

 

“Just Paulie Jr. doing the two-step on my bladder and punching me in the liver,” Nealer says with a faint wince and holds out a hand to Carey. “Help me up, I have to pee.”

 

“So…” Connor says after they’ve both levered Nealer up off the couch and they’re alone in the living room again. “About Subban.”

 

Carey holds up a hand. “Nope, not a conversation that’s happening.”

 

To her utter surprise, he nods and then holds up the shopping bag and gives her a sheepish look before scuttling off to the kitchen.

 

If Carey were thinking more clearly, she would have recognized that Connor had given up too easily. She realizes it 4 hours later, though, when she gets home and checks her phone.

 

**Unknown Number:** Hello?

 

**Unknown Number:** Testing, testing, one two three.

 

**Unknown Number:** It’s not about the money, money, money. We don’t need your money, money, money.

 

**Unknown Number:** We just want to make the world dance.

 

**Unknown Number:** Forget about the PRICE tag.

 

**Unknown Number:** Pretty sure that’s the only song I know about that’s got the word “Price” in the title.

 

Carey lays on her bed and stares at the ceiling, unsure whether to laugh or cry. Finally, she picks her phone up off her stomach and adds PK Subban to her contact list before replying:

 

**Carey:** I’ve never hear about a song with Subban in the title, that’s for sure.

 

**PK:** Pricey!

 

“You were expecting someone else?” she mutters outloud to the empty room and then realizes that she’s spent way too much time lately talking to herself. The little ellipses that indicate he’s typing pop up on the screen and she panics, her fingers moving independently of her brain before he can respond.

 

**Carey:** I’m really bad at this.

 

The ellipses disappear for a second and then appear again.

 

**PK:** Texting?

 

_ Well that’s an easy out if I’ve ever seen one _ , her brain offers, but Carey ignores it, takes a deep breath and texts back.

 

**Carey:** Dating.

 

The ellipses barely have time to pop up this time before his reply comes through.

 

**PK:** I’ve seen worse.   
  


**Carey:** That is an outrageous lie, PK Subban.

 

A few seconds later, a picture comes through, a selfie of PK, shirtless, grinning at the camera, propped up on a bed with impossibly white sheets, one muscular arm tucked easily behind his head. He looks completely at ease and she finds herself smiling helplessly in response.

 

**PK:** Would this face lie to you?”

 

**Carey:** I have my suspicions.

 

**PK:** Hurtful.

 

**PK:** I’d never lie to you, Cash Money Price. So let’s try this: some time tomorrow, you text me. I don’t care what time or what it says, let’s just start with a text.

 

Carey stares at her phone for a good fifteen minutes, half-afraid that if she blinks wrong that she’ll start crying or something equally ridiculous and then she types out, “Okay.”

 

* * *

**Wednesday, 10:26pm**

 

**Carey:** There’s a squirrel in the attic. I can hear it running around up there. I am trying to sleep and that squirrel is being incredibly inconsiderate. Doesn’t he know I have to be up at 5 am for work?

 

* * *

 

**Thursday, 8:57am**

 

**Carey:** I hate mornings.

**PK:** You? Never.

**Carey:** I refuse to send selfies, so you’re just going to have to imagine me glaring at you right now.

* * *

 

**Friday, 8:26am**

 

**Carey:** Benny burned her toast this morning and set off the smoke detector which made Malkin’s dog start howling. Oh, and apparently, Eks agreed to dog-sit Malkin’s dog which I was completely unaware of. Why did I ever agree to let these two live with me?

**PK:** Because you’re really a big softie.

**Carey:** Tell anyone and you’re a dead man, Subban.

* * *

 

**Friday, 8:59pm**

 

**PK:** Wait, how did you even miss a dog that big in your house, Pricey?!

**Carey:** Shut up.

 

* * *

 

**Saturday, 12:04pm**

 

**Carey:** Did you seriously ask Connor to ask me what my favorite movie is?

**PK:** No, I asked McDavid what your favorite movie is and then he blew my cover.

**Carey:** Suuuuuuure.

**PK:** But if you did have a favorite movie, what would it be? Asking for a friend.

**Carey:** You fail at subtle, Subban.

**Carey:** It’s The Sandlot, btw

 

* * *

 

**Thursday, 12:10am**

 

**Carey:** Hey, I know it’s late.

**PK:** Eh, I’m still up.

**Carey:** That looked like a nasty fall.

**PK:** U watching my games now, Pricey? What happened to me being your second favorite hockey player?

**Carey:** Shut up. Are you okay?

**PK:** Yeah, sweetheart. I’m okay. Little sore, but I’m okay.

**Carey:** Stupid.

**PK:** For you? Always.

  
  


* * *

 

It’s a little like watching a train wreck in slow motion. The swinging arc of the man’s fist, the way that Carey’s slender body jerks at the impact, and the aborted little shriek she gives as she flips backwards over the edge of the balcony, one hand grabbing at air.

 

Part of Jamie’s mind is still trying to process how this simple disagreement had produced such extreme results.

 

Reality comes rushing back like a crashing wave of a sound and light and she pushes away the brawler that she’d been grappling with, hard enough that he stumbles and falls to the floor. For a split second, another scene overlays this one, another scene with more sand and dirt and angry voices speaking another language and glaringly bright sunlight where Carey lies crumpled in the middle of a dusty dirt road, a growing pool of blood surrounding her while the crack of gunfire echoes around them, while Eks tries to cover their fallen comrade with her own body, screaming for help at the top of her lungs as war goes on around them.

 

Jamie blinks and the past is gone. She stumbles to the edge of the balcony and forces herself to look down. Carey lies eerily motionless in the wreckage of one of the faux cabanas around the edge of the dance floor, blood smearing the floor around her and the white gleam of exposed bone catching the still flashing strobe lights of the club.

 

Only when Jamie dashes downstairs, crashes to her knees beside her friend and feels the strong steady pulse at Carey’s throat does she herself begin to breathe again, deep gulps of air that make her almost lightheaded. Jamie’s ripping off her polo shirt before her brain catches up with the incident, falling back on training and instinct as she presses the shirt against the very clear compound fracture of Carey’s left arm. The rest of the security staff do their jobs, leaving Jamie to concentrate for the second time in her life on making sure that Carey Price doesn’t bleed to death.

 

Jamie loses track of time between the ambulance, police, and the general pandemonium of the emergency room. Carey wakes up in the ambulance, but her eyes are glazed and struggling to focus on anything and she can just barely answer the EMT’s questions, most of which she answers wrong. The ulna is completely broken, sharply shoved through the skin of Carey’s forearm and no one can answer questions about damage and future mobility, but the nurse says that their orthopedic surgeon is one of the best in the country and Jamie just has to believe her.

 

A half hour after they wheel Carey into surgery, Eryn comes racing into the waiting room at top speed, still in uniform and she’s as pale and terrified looking as Jamie feels. Malkin isn’t far behind and he mutters something under his breath in Russian as he drops into an easy crouch next to Jamie’s chair, one of his big hands settling on her shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze. Eryn burrows tight into Jamie’s side and they sit holding each other like that for three hours until the surgeon comes out and he looks tired, but he’s smiling.

 

“She’s got a lot more metal in her than when she started her morning,” the man says as he runs a hand over his salt and pepper hair. “But it looks like she’ll regain full use of the arm. They’ll come and get you after they move her from recovery to a room.”

 

“I’m call Sid,” Malkin says. “He’ll be worried.” Jamie nods, only paying half-attention as she continues to wait for word that they can see Carey.

 

It’s not until two hours later that they are ushered up to the 8th floor and into the dimly lit room where Carey is lying in a hospital bed. True to form, the woman herself is conscious, although it appears to be taking a Herculean effort for her to keep her eyes open.

 

“Come here, Eks,” Carey says with slurring that comes less from a concussion and more from the pain medication that they’re piping direct into her bloodstream, clumsily patting the bed next to her with the arm not currently strung up like an erector set. Eks hovers for all of two seconds before she darts over to the bed and settles carefully against Carey’s uninjured side. The older woman shifts down, putting her head carefully on Eks’ shoulder and snuggling in like a child with their favorite stuffed toy.

 

Jamie completely understands the desire to be close. The three of them had done two tours in Iraq, the second tour ending with Carey being med-evaced to Germany and the three having to be re-united stateside. They’d been best friends since that first meeting in their shipping container apartment, awkwardly bumping into each other and settling into their new home. Carey is as much a big sister to Jamie and Eks as their own siblings.

 

Carey is family. 

 

“Jesus Pricey,” Eks is saying, lacing her fingers tightly into the hand that doesn’t have an IV drip in it. “This is not the kind of call I want to be fielding on a Saturday night, woman.”

 

“Pffffftttt,” Carey slurs, eyes fluttering shut. “Any call about me is a good call. I’m hot shit,” Eks rolls her eyes, but leans down and gently busses her lips against the top of Carey’s head. The two of them fall asleep like that and Jamie settles into the chair by the door for first watch.

 

“You call Subban?” Malkin asks later as he settles into the chair next to Jamie and hands her a steaming cup that turns out to be tea. Somewhere between the original emergency call and the trip to the hospital, she’d snagged Carey’s phone and left the man a voicemail, hopefully one that was less disjointed than she currently feels.

 

“They’re gonna probably keep her overnight,” Jamie reports on autopilot, still staring at Carey’s lax face. She’s unaware that her knee is jittering until Malkin gives it a gentle squeeze. “They’re going to want to monitor the surgery site and keep an eye on concussion symptoms.”

 

“You okay, Benny?” Eks asks, apparently awake and still tucked around a now dozing Carey and Jamie is embarrassed when tears threaten. She recognizes the symptoms of adrenaline crash, knows them better than anyone, but there’s nothing she can do to stop it.

 

“I’m just getting really tired of Pricey bleeding in front of me,” she manages to choke out and then Malkin is folding her into a hug, murmuring in Russian as he gently rocks her. Jamie curls into his broad chest and just gives in to the tears.

 

* * *

 

PK has never been more grateful for his teammates in his life.

 

Jamie Benn’s terse and completely non-specific phone message punctuated by the scream of an ambulance and anxious sounding chatter in the background knocks his legs right out from under him and he stops walking, right there in the middle of the gym, staring down at his phone uncomprehendingly.

 

When he doesn’t respond to his teammate’s inquiries, Pekka takes his phone and listens to the message as he and Roman hustle PK down the hallways of the Bridgestone arena to the coach’s office and explain the situation in full while PK is still trying to fit his brain around the mass of emotion and information in his head.

 

Coach takes one look at PK’s face and tells him to go and for good measure sends Roman with him, taking advantage of the other man’s IR status to give PK a much needed hand. It’s a short flight to Pittsburgh, but PK would be hard pressed to remember details from it, just that Roman is in the seat next to his and that a flight attendant brings him a beverage that he doesn’t drink more than half of.

 

It finally hits him when he gets to the hospital, takes the elevator to the eighth floor with Roman at his side, and steps out to find Jamie Benn standing in the hallway, talking with a tall dark-haired man in a police uniform. It’s not the sight of the police officer or the sudden quiet of the hospital, it’s Jamie in a pair of snug-fitting scrubs.

 

Scrubs that she’s wearing because her uniform had been soaked with Carey’s blood.

 

“Carey?” he asks, voice cracking a little from disuse and Jamie breaks away from the officer, comes right to him and wraps him in her tattooed arms, giving him a good solid squeeze before letting him go. 

 

“Is really, really high right now,” Jamie reports and her smile is small and tired, but it’s genuine and PK literally feels the tension begin to drain out of his body. Jamie is not one to sugar-coat things. “She keeps asking where her sexy hockey player is.”

 

As if on cue, Roman steps up beside Carey and flashes his best supermodel smile and if PK weren’t still so twisted up inside, he’d laugh out loud at the completely unimpressed expression that Jamie gives him.

 

“Go on,” she says, nudging PK towards the open door down the hall. “I’ve got to finish giving my statement to Geno and then probably keep your friend here from hitting on the nurses. He looks like that type,”

 

Ignoring Roman’s protestations about his unending respect for those in the nursing profession, PK goes to the ajar door, takes a deep breath and pushes inside.

 

Carey looks small in the hospital bed, half curled on her side with the shoulder of her hospital gown unsnapped to allow for the rig of wires and bandages that encompass her entire left arm. She’s hooked up an IV and the monitors behind her indicate that she’s breathing and her heart is beating, but all PK can see is that bandage.

 

That’s probably why it takes him a second to realize that Carey is actually awake and that she’s watching him through heavy lidded eyes. Three steps and he’s at the side of the bed, hand hovering, unsure where to touch. Carey makes the decision for him, reaching her unfettered hand up and grasping his.

 

“You don’t look so good,” falls out of his mouth before he can stop himself and Carey smiles, a little dopily.

 

“I’m okay, baby,” she says, voice slurred ever so slightly and gives his hand a clumsy squeeze. “Geez, you’re hot.”

 

There’s a snort from the doorway and PK glances over his shoulder to find Jamie standing there with two styrofoam cups in her hand, eyebrow arched and mouth pursed in amusement. Roman is nowhere in sight and PK wonders if Jamie already shoved him into a supply closet somewhere.

 

“We get it, Pricey,” she says, coming into the room and handing a cup of what turns out to be coffee to PK. “You landed yourself a big, studly hockey player.”

 

“Yeah,” Carey says, her head tilting to the side like a puppy as she wrinkles her nose up at PK. “Big studly hockey man.”

 

“You’re so high right now, aren’t you, sweetheart?” PK asks, setting the coffee down on the nearby rolling table and leaning over to brush some of her loose brown hair out of her face before gently kissing her on the forehead.

 

“Meh,” Carey says, staring up at him. “I’ve been on stronger,”

 

“I can attest to that,” Jamie says from the foot of the bed. “After her last surgery, she drooled on herself, cried because the Jello tasted so good, and re-introduced herself to the nurse every time he came into the room. And he came in  _ a lot _ because she kept pulling off her pulse oximeter and trying to change the TV channels with it.” 

 

“ _ Jamie _ ,” Carey whispers, or rather probably tries to whisper discreetly because she’s actually speaking at full volume from behind her hand and PK’s still leaning over her, mere inches from her face. “Shut up! I want him to like me,”

 

God help him, PK does. He loves her in fact, but he thinks waiting until she can actually remember him telling her will make for a better story for their grandkids.

 

* * *

 

To Eryn's utter surprise, Jamie doesn't say anything when PK asks Carey to go back to Nashville with him to recover, so Eryn closes her mouth on her own protests and follows her friend's lead. Pricey just says yes with the world’s dopiest smile and asks if there’s any more cherry Jello.

 

No one has the heart to tell her that she’s eating applesauce.

 

"Am I missing something?" Eryn asks, sotto voce out in the hallway, following a successful vending machine run that nets her the last package of Cheez-Its. "Why are we letting Pricey swan off to another city instead of staying where we can keep an eye on her?" Jamie grins with real humor, rather than the teeth baring grimace that she usually wears and nods her head at the open door, in specific the sight that waits beyond it.

 

Carey and PK are both asleep on the bed, Carey propped up with too many pillows because she’d insisted, PK curled up against her uninjured side, his head on her shoulder and his arm wrapped loosely around her stomach. Carey's head has tilted to the side, resting atop Subban's and her face is peaceful with more than just pain meds.

 

"Okay then," Eryn says and rips open the bag of Cheez-Its. "Pricey's off to Nashville,"

 

"Eks, my dear," Jamie says as she leans over and steals a cracker. "She was never going anywhere else."

 

* * *

 

"Hockey players fail at boundaries," PK mutters darkly and it takes Carey a few beats to realize why he's explaining something that she is already very well aware of. The collection of cars in the large half-circle driveway as well as along the quiet street are clearly in the "do not belong" category of PK's life.

 

"Oh just wait," she says as he pulls up behind an red Dodge Charger with racing stripes and puts his SUV in park. "You haven't even met the people I work with. Benny and Eks are tame in comparison to some of them."

 

"You inviting me home to meet the family, Carey?" PK says teasingly, but painkillers have always made her a little too honest and maybe that's why he looks so stunned when she says, "Of course I want you to meet my family; why wouldn't I?"

 

Then there's not really any need for words because PK makes a soft sound in the back of his throat and then he says, “Damnit, Carey, you can’t just say stuff like that,” and then he leans across the center console and Carey closes the gap between them, pressing their lips together.

 

Objectively, it’s not a great kiss because she’s still on some fairly high doses of narcotics and she has to awkwardly twist her body to avoid putting any pressure on her broken arm, but it’s PK and that all by itself makes it an amazing kiss. He cups the side of her face and deepens the kiss and Carey is beginning to think she could probably just do this all day, sit here all awkwardly twisted up in the passenger seat of his SUV and make out like their lives depended on it.

 

The universe, however, seems to have different ideas. Something thuds against the hood, rocking the entire vehicle and they jerk apart to find a large broad-shouldered man leaning on the hood and making kissy faces at them, his epic hockey flow blowing in the breeze.

 

“Remember that boundaries thing,” PK says on a sigh and then gets out to help her out of the car. ‘Epic Hockey Flow’ apparently goes by Ryan and he tells her that she is way too pretty to be spending time with the likes of PK Subban and that he is much better at dating than his teammate.

 

PK makes him carry their luggage.

 

There is a mess of bodies in the house and ordinarily, Carey would hate that, hate that many unknowns in one space, but travel and painkillers have softened what Jamie has generously referred to as her “hedgehog-ness” and so Carey doesn’t complain when PK clears an entire side of the couch for her, settling her next to the guy with a baby face and big blue eyes whose leg is also trussed up in medical equipment, specifically a black immobilization cast. He introduces himself as Kevin and proceeds to flirt shamelessly with her, much to PK’s chagrin and his teammates’ amusement.

 

There are a lot of names and in-jokes hurled around the room and it makes her head spin enough that it’s unsurprising that she finds herself drifting off to sleep not too soon after declining to spend the weekend with Kevin in Cabo. 

 

“ _ Pricey,”  _ a voice calls softly and then a calloused hand cups her face. Carey rises out of sleep reluctantly and sleepily blinks awake to find PK crouched in front of her, a soft smile on his face. The living room is empty and quiet, the only light coming from the hall and she almost lets her eyes slide shut again because she’s so tired, but a thumb strokes across her cheek and she forces her eyes open again.

 

“I’m up,” she mumbles and PK grins, eyes glinting in the dim light. “I’m up. Totally awake and present.”

 

“That is a complete lie, but you’re cute so I’ll allow it.” he says and then before she registers what is happening, PK has swept her up into his arms and carries her towards the stairs. Sometime between the stairs and sheets with an absurd thread count, Carey falls asleep again to the steady thump of PK’s heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

“Swanky digs,” Danni Briere announces her presence with all the subtlety of an anvil, dropping into the overstuffed chair next to Carey in the owner’s box. The older woman has clearly come from the boardroom, clad in a sleek black pantsuit and lethal looking stilettos with her riot of dark curls barely contained in a mass atop her head. Carey doesn’t even bother asking why the chief operating officer of Gladiator Security is in Nashville on a Thursday morning, having long since gotten used to the petite older woman randomly popping up in her life. 

 

“I like it,” Carey says, turning her attention back to the action on the ice. Action is actually a very loose word for what she’s watching as the Predators Predators have chosen to play freeze-tag as a way to work on their skating. “How many people did you threaten to kill with those shoes today?”

 

“Only three or four,” Danni says dismissively, popping the top two buttons on her shirt and slouching in her chair, going from Queen of the Boardroom to Casual Queen in a snap, a trait that Carey has always envied her for. “A relatively light day, all things considered.” 

 

Carey snorts and tries to shift into a more comfortable position that doesn’t make her bruised ribs ache quite so much. Two weeks of bed rest and the pain has diminished to a generalized ache, but she still has moments where a wrong move can feel like a knife in the back. The doctors say she was incredibly lucky to only break her arm and Jamie says it was because she landed on her thick skull first because Jamie is an dick like that.

 

“Hey Pricey?” Danni asks and Carey hmms questioningly, tilting her head towards the other woman as she tracks PK around the ice, chasing the looming figure of Rinne in his full goalie gear. 

 

“You want a job?” Danni asks. Out of the corner of her vision, Carey can see the older woman lean her head back against the chair and close her eyes. If she waits long enough, there’s a 50/50 chance that Danni will simply doze off and forget whatever it is that she was planning on asking, but Carey’s curiosity is admittedly peaked.

 

“I have a job, dumbass,” Carey replies, watching Rinne lose his battle with PK and become the dreaded ‘it’. “You were the one who hired me.”

 

“Yes, and it’s a decision that I regret daily,” Danni mutters and then nudges Carey in the calf with her pointy toed heel until she pulls her attention away from the ice and looks at her visitor.

 

“You want to be head of security for the Predators organization?” Carey quirks an eyebrow at the other woman because she’s having flashbacks to the first time Danni had asked her to work for Gladiator Security, except this time Carey isn’t sitting in the drunk tank of the local police precinct with Eks passed out on the bench next to her and Benny puking her guts out in the corner.

 

Carey will be the first one to admit that her priorities have shifted dramatically in the last 7 years. 

 

“Do I get a parking spot?” she asks, trying to bite back a smile from breaking free. Danni shrugs, closes her eyes and tilts her face towards the ceiling.

 

“Eh, I can probably negotiate for free popcorn at home games,” she says. “Wake me up when they’re done pretending to practice.” 

 

Carey lets her grin go free. 

 

* * *

 

**Five months later...**

 

“Pricey!” The bellow doesn’t give Carey quite enough time to brace herself for the crushing hug that follows or being physically picked up off the floor by the Preds’ first line center. There is nothing dignified about being aggressively hugged by the human equivalent of a golden retriever, but the press isn’t hounding them here so she doesn’t worry about any pictures landing on Deadspin.

 

There have been lots of pictures lately, lots of rumors and conjecture and Eks and Benny keep sending her links to blog posts about the direct link between her wearing a specific pair of pants and how many goals PK scores per game.

 

"Hi," she says, tilting her head back to look up at Ryan who is wearing his game face, but being four beers in, is significantly less intimidating than he thinks it is. The man leaning against the bar next to her shoots Ryan some serious side-eye, but the bartender plunks the man’s pitcher of beer down just then and he nods at Carey before walking away. Ryan doesn't detach and so Carey gets her pitcher of beer and awkwardly shuffles back to the corner of the bar that the Predators have co-opted for the night, with a hockey player firmly attached to her middle.

 

"You makin' time with my liney, Pricey?" PK asks, still slouched in the same position that she'd left him in. His lazy smile never fails to stir that warm feeling in the pit of her stomach and she grins back at him as she hands the pitcher off to Roman and goes to work trying to wriggle free of her hockey player blanket.

 

Ryan grumbles but eventually she gets him back into his chair and sinks into her spot by PK, who immediately tucks her back into the crook of his arm. Carey turns her head, brushing a kiss across his cheek, ignoring the cat calls from his teammates.

 

"Hi," he murmurs in her ear. "Ryan was very worried that you were being harassed by that guy at the bar." Carey rolls her eyes.

 

"He was one of the guys from Nashville PD; I met him last week when he covered a security shift for Alex." She casts her gaze towards the collection of men at the back of the bar. "You're the one who keeps telling me to make friends."

 

"That I do," he says but before he can say anything else there's a bellow of sound from the doorway and three quarters of the Pittsburgh Penguins pour through the door of the bar.

 

"Pricey! My boo!" McDavid cries out in the most dramatic of ways and Carey finds herself pulled away from PK and into the crowd of the Pens. It’s about an hour before she finishes catching up with both the Pens as well as a few of the security team members that have tagged along, but she eventually finds her way back to PK’s side and curls into him on the bench seat. He doesn’t look away from his conversation with Crosby, but his arm tightens around her and Carey gives into the urge to put her head on his shoulder and close her eyes.

 

When she opens them, Crosby is giving her an almost smug look and she tenses just enough for PK to give her a gentle squeeze, enough to remind her that she’s among friends.

 

“What?” she asks, stealing a sip of PK’s ginger ale.

 

“You seem happy, Pricey.” Crosby says, the smugness disappearing until his smile is completely genuine. “It’s a good look on you.”

 

“I’m telling your husband that you’re hitting on me,” she says, but smiles to soften the words. Crosby rolls his eyes and shakes his head. PK laughs, his chest vibrating under her head and Carey doesn’t even try to keep the smile off her face as she snuggles in as close as possible.

 

The rest of the night will pass the way it usually does, with PK and Carey and Pekka keeping an eye on the youngsters, prepared to call cabs as needed and then they’ll all file their way out of bar, wave goodbye to each other, and go their separate ways, to their homes and their beds.

 

PK will go through his nightly skin-care regimen while Carey checks her email one last time for the night and queues up an old episode of Parks and Rec for them. She’ll fall asleep to PK’s impression of John Ralphio and wake up when he turns the TV off and tells her he loves her. She’ll sleepily mumble it back as they curl around each other and drift off to sleep.

 

It will be familiar and comfortable and routine.

 

And Carey wouldn’t have it any other way.


End file.
